A boy and his sphinx
by Umbra viridis -tco
Summary: With every salvation comes condemnation. Heart fears the false prophets, for they shall lure it into their grasp and betray it. The gold threads of life you tried to play with - they turned you into a puppet.


The evening reached the frustrating point when it's too late to do anything productive but definitely too early to call it a day and go to bed. Sure, he's heard the legend that the older you get – the faster you hit the sheets, but Dean supposes that in his case, it wouldn't do him any good. If he succumbs to the lack of point of staying awake, then after his four hours he's gonna be up at three in the morning. And what is he gonna do with himself up at such a wee hour. So Dean's struggle with fumbling around aimlessly in his room in a hopeless search for a worthwhile occupation continues. He doesn't find any. But he doesn't leave the sad citadel of his room. He's got good reasons to turn it into a fortress.

He could of course, in theory, as he used to do, anyway, grab a few beers and share them, his thoughts, and his space with Sam. Except that, he won't do that. He'd rather much avoid it.

Dean's got his picture clear, but he can't say the same about his emotions. He controls them, of course he does, but the rampant, yet confined anger stewing unsteadily in his chest has become quite a dangerous burden. And as time passes, more and more tiny stones come falling at the pile already lingering there, pinning him down, threatening to disrupt the thin balance. Dean's afraid he might snap at some point. That he might take it all out on Sam – since at his weakest moments – it seems so natural, so easy, so indisputably accurate to do of all things: that exactly – because what made him so wrathful and bitter – was, and still is, wearing Sam's skin, Sam's voice. So when he stares at the unsuspecting abyss of his brother's face for too long – the anger claws its way out, demanding justice, throwing countless, unuttered accusations into Sam' kind, concerned eyes. _You forced me to do it and I hate you_ – it wants to hiss through Dean's throat. _Fought and begged for so long to have and you sent it away_ – it thrashes between his teeth, rolls around his tongue, but never makes its way out of his mouth, scolded and held in place and in order by the nervous twitching around the corners of his lips, by biting the insides of his cheeks until a completely different sensation dulls the constant flow of charges. _I could rip your fucking face off _– it mutters as Dean forces it back down his guts, before his fingers start to twitch in accord to his mouth, before the air in his lungs stops halfway in an anxious pause – _you owe me more than you can give back_ – the anger warns in the end as the lid of the coffin that Dean's heart has become shuts down once again. It's just Sam – Dean has to remind himself every time - just Sam. And Sam didn't do anything. Sam didn't kick Cas out to the curb, like a coward, without offering half of a reasonable explanation, without a word of truth as to why, without a moment to talk about it – about anything at all, about why it feels so wrong as the tables have turned and he is the one abandoning Cas when he needs him. Sam didn't throw him out, avoiding touch, words, contact – as if he were a parasite. Sam didn't tell him to go through a broken voice of a liar, through putting guns, knives, cash, clothes, food, toiletries, cell phones, everythings and whatevers like stupid fucking little sea-shells or his stupid favorite books, or old leather bracelets – all the shit that wordlessly tries to express the urgent message of _please,_ _don't hate me, Cas, don't forget me, Cas, don't shove me out when I come back for you, Cas, I'm sorry, Cas, Cas, Cas, Cas, I'm sorry _– inside of the duffel bag, laying in a quiet accusation at Cas's human but somehow sacred fucking feet, throwing all of these things there, along with his shattered, cowardly heart, avoiding looking into Cas's eyes at all cost. Yeah, Sam didn't do that. Ezekiel the Enigmatic didn't, either.

He did that.

He did that. And he still both dared and managed to fall asleep at some point on that night and he still, despite it happening through his very own betraying words and filthy, terrified hands, woke up the next day. As if he deserved it. He doesn't, not anymore. So when he's all alone in his empty room, he spares Sam, and to himself, in exchange, he whispers instead and the words, finally out, finally getting to put the blame, are relieved to echo around his skull as Dean obediently intakes them, condemning himself in front of a mirror – I'd rip your fucking face off for it, too – he sighs, his syllables and expression equally self-condescending.

But ripping his face off wouldn't do him any good – it happened a handful of times in the past forty-something years, and never, not once, did it make him feel better, clean or simply off debt from whatever his guilts had been at the time.

Now, having his face on, and another one worn upon that one – a brass mask pretending to be gold, honesty and happiness – he experiences a new kind of hell – one that breaks and bends him within mere weeks when the pit couldn't have done it in decades.

The mysterious sphinx who holds the gold threads keeps him in his grasp, bribes his heart and washes his ache away with the flickers of life in Sam's hazel eyes, with the steady breathing of Sam's lungs, with keeping the promise that every night, Sam lays himself down to sleep and Dean doesn't have to arrange his dead body on the bed to make Sam look like he's sleeping; that after every night, Sam stands up on his own like the miracle he is and Dean doesn't have to salt his body and carry it into the fire.

If he disobeys the sphinx, he'll have to.

This is what makes Dean sleep at night, this is what makes him curl his palms into white-knuckled fists and sometimes, in the fervor of emotions, he finds himself powerless like a child. Ezekiel had brought Cas back, then he had taken him away, so he had done with his brother and then threatened to make him collapse into dying again. He, the unreadable, ancient thing, keeps Dean hanging on thin strings of doubtful mercy, feeds him with mouthfuls of nauseating words of reassurance and subtle pats on his shoulder that as a concept – violate so many things that remained holy inside of Dean that he wants to flip shits and tables over, but he doesn't, even when it's just Sam and him. It never is. The danger is crawling so close beneath Sam's skin, Dean could swear he can feel the blue radiating and burning him every time they're around each other.

But when he's back in his room and the dreadful sensation remains a fire on him still, he realizes, it's not Ezekiel he 's feeling. It's Cas. It's Cas's not being here. It's the impossibility of the choice he was forced to make: pick between someone he raised as his own child and someone he's grown to love beyond any conditions. And he finds himself thinking of his mother and his father – how they both made their choices - how they both had picked their spouses and thus, sentenced them – their children – into this madness. He's not even angry – he's old and in love enough himself to understand. It just runs in the family – Dean thinks, blaming fate once again, quietly proceeding with fucking with its decisions once more because he's going to do all he can to save both. He prays to nobody and nowhere that all he _is_ can be enough. And then he swallows his hopes and prayers down. Someone is always listening – he thinks so often it becomes a constant red light in his mind. His heart has already been used against him because he allowed it to get too loud.

Too many things inside of him want to scream, leak through the mask that doesn't let him breathe. So he avoids everyone and everything. For now, he let go of Cas. For now, he lets go of Sam. He glares at him bitterly when he wishes to comfort him, he walks away when he wants to go closer because inside of Dean, the pain never simmers down – _I could rip your fucking face off_ – Dean's chest cries, anger seeping through the cracks of his façade and his coffin-heart. _For both of them, I could_ – it writhes, giving the morbid promise, making Dean shudder as he passes Sam, as he stands next to him, as he remembers the price he had to pay.

Dean's Sphinx judges him carefully through the borrowed, clever eyes when Dean turns his head away in shame. Hidden, he is always listening to the tension singing through Dean's joints.


End file.
